


and so the flames consume

by quwinto



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Cities Verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quwinto/pseuds/quwinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cities do not dare dabble with fire. But sometimes the fire is human-shaped and oh, so enticing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so the flames consume

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Paris Burning by thecitysmith (which is in a totally different fandom) but I loved the idea so i wrote this.

Verona was born from the waters of the Adige River. Everything about him was sharp from the moment he opened his eyes to the world.

As he met the other Cities, he took only to Rome, enjoying her welcoming hands as she stood beside him in times of war and peace. He remembers building aqueducts with her, their hands moving in rhythm with the workers to bring clean water to his citizens. He was proud to shelter emperors and kings, the leaders praising him and the city he stood for.

The towers from the medieval ages are still outlined on his flesh, all forty-eight of them stand out proudly in a line from one wrist across his back to the other.

Money is always in his pockets and he gives it to every beggar he meets, only finding that more gold coins have taken their place, a testament to his wealth throughout the centuries, rivalled perhaps only by Florence.

King after king made their residence Verona, which he sneered at and laughed when the kings sent sentries looking for him, wishing for their City to be their ambassador. Who Verona chose to associate with was his decision and none else could persuade him.

One scar criss-crosses his chest in memory of the slaughter of 11,000 Paduans in his fields, the deed carried out by one of his lords. He remembers cradling a few of the last dying victims in his arms, wondering how it had come to be that his fields were soaked with the blood of innocents.

He remembers the coup d’etat in 1262 but he doesn’t remember the leader.

He remembers how his cities was beautified with palaces and aqueducts and bridges, his skin gaining freckles as each stone was put into place on the new buildings.

He was a city-state at that point, fighting with his brothers and sisters in the race to become the Capital City.

In 1511 black spots began dotting his back and legs as he lost 13,000 citizens to plague. He was in bed for weeks, sobbing and feeling every soul that was snuffed out as if he had been at their bedside. The grief from the families was even worse, he sobbed with them, mourning all those that were taken from him, beautiful Verona, too soon.

1630 would add more black marks to his body as he will lose over 35,000 to plague that year. He would try to hold on to all of their names but they will slip away like sand through his mind.

He will be given to Austria by Napoleon against his will and remain bitter until the Austrians retreat and then he will celebrate wildly with his fellow Italians. Rome will toast him time and time again while Venice and Florence hug and kiss him again and again in elation.

He will flood in 1882, water filling up so many people’s lungs and his own as well and that he will shy away from the river for years and years afterwards.

During World War II, his skin will scar immeasurably as bombings shake and destroy buildings for four terrible years. He will scorn at the Golden Medal for Military Valor he will be awarded, knowing it can never replace all the lives lost to the shrapnel and cry at night when he can’t sleep for dreams of planes screaming overhead.

But this is not about what will happen to Verona.

This is about what happened to Mercutio.

Verona chose the name Mercutio. Like the name, he was ever-changing, always moving fluidly in and out of his citizen’s lives, making sure no one noticed how he stayed young. He preferred not to be recognized so no one would treat him differently.

He took his name from Mercury, his favorite god, from when Rome taught all of he and his siblings the myths of old. The fleet footed god, he was told. The messenger, the trickster. And Mercutio is definitely the latter.

 

In the 1400s, two families sprout up in Verona. The Montagues and the Capulets hate each other instantly with several suspicious deaths only worsening the feud.

Mercutio wishes to make them lay down their arms but he finds he would have to reveal himself as a City to enforce that. Best to let the kings and princes handle it.

He avoids them all at first, but then decides to mingle. They’re his citizens, after all.

He acquaints himself with the Capulets first, after years of observing, then moves to the Montagues.

He dances nimbly through the streets with the Montagues for years after finding the Capulets too rough and vicious. The Montagues are warriors of the tongue, preferring words to swords and jibes to punches.

He laughs along with them, taunting Capulets into spewing fire and throwing punches that he dodges, buoyant with mirth. He darts in and out of the Montagues every few generations so that none catch on to how he does not age.

Now, he jokes with Romeo and Benvolio Montague, his favorites of the clan. They are young and free spirited, and like to buy wine for Mercutio.

He quips at them over the rim of his wine glass and enjoys the feeling he gets from having friends and consuming a bottle of wine.

Tonight, they are dining particularly close to the Capulet/Montague line. The tavern they chose is neutral, and Mercutio can see a few Capulets in another corner of the establishment, drinking and paying Mercutio and his friends no mind.

He does not point them out to Romeo and Benvolio, for nothing good would come of it. The Capulets surge with laughter and happiness when another joins them, and Mercutio knows who it is without turning.

The Prince of Cats captured Mercutio's attention when they first met during a brawl, the Capulet's fists ramming into Benvolio's face and Mercutio pulling them apart only to be pulled away by a strong grip on his shirt.

He came face to face with a bloody mouth twisted into a snarl and quickly shook himself free, saying, “Hurt the Prince's nephew, will you? I doubt it!” The Capulet—he couldn't be much older than twenty—immediately backed off from Mercutio and turned away to stalk off, his metal heels making sharp clinks as they struck the ground.

“Benvolio, dear friend, pray tell me, who was that brash youth?” Mercutio asks the Montague as he helps him to his feet.

“Him?” Benvolio says, wiping his bloodied nose on his hand. “He is none other than the infamous Tybalt, son of Lord Vittorio Capulet, and one of the most vicious brawlers to ever walk the streets of Verona. Some say he was born out of pure fire, and scorches the ground when he walks barefoot. His punches certainly burn too, but I believe that is normal of all fighters. Some say—”

“I thank thee, Benvolio.” Mercutio cuts him off, determined to know Tybalt firsthand rather than through rumors. “Rather a Prince of Cats, isn't he?” He says, grinning.

Benvolio rolls his eyes, exasperated with his friend's roundabout way of speaking. “Speak plainly, my friend. I know not what you jest.”

“Nothing, nothing. Tis nothing but the thought of an idle brain, dear Benvolio.”

Now, he watches the Capulet sit with his fellows and drink, barely talking, smiling even less. Mercutio watches, a smile curling his lip as he thinks more and more, and stands.

“Mercutio! Why must you leave so early?” Romeo crows immediately, latching on Mercutio's arm.

“Relax, friend. I am not traveling far.” He makes it across the tavern with minimal swaying, and stops at the Capulet table, looking only at Tybalt.

“Prince of Cats.” Tybalt does not look at him, instead emptying his nearly full wine glass and setting it down.

“Dearest Tybalt—” he begins, and the front of his shirt is immediately grasped as Tybalt stands and shoves him away from the table.

“Leave us be, Montague.” His lips peel back from his teeth in a warning, but Mercutio can only hear the velvet tones of Tybalt's growl enticing him to stray closer.

“Dear Capulet, I meant no offense—” He begins—

“Yet your presence and gall to approach me offends. Begone,” He leans over the table.“Or I'll throw you out myself.”

Mercutio grins and bows to Tybalt, enjoying the brief baffled expression that flits across the Capulet's handsome features. Tybalt, the boy,—he can't be more than twenty—quickly rearranges his face into an expression of hate and steps around the table.

“I said begone!” Tybalt shouts and shoves Mercutio back, away from the other Capulets who are laughing and jeering at Mercutio and cheering Tybalt on. Mercutio stumbles back, and turns to leave, walking back to his friends who are laughing as well as the performance.

Mercutio grins at them and sits, eyes trained on the vicious Capulet across the room. Tybalt downs another glass of wine and leaves ten minutes later, after drumming his fingers on the table and saying nothing more to his companions. Mercutio finds himself feeling curiously like something is missing.

 

A week or two later, Benvolio suggests going to the Capulets' party, and Mercutio jumps at the idea. What better way to see the Prince of Cats again? He teases Romeo about Rosaline and offers to help him get over her, and what a convenient front it is!

His heart skips down the cobblestones toward the mansion, and he follows it enthusiastically, leading his parade of masked Montagues to dangerous territory.

He sweeps in the door, kissing someone's hand, gliding past a few girls with a curt nod, searching for his Prince.

He's come to think of Tybalt as the jewel of Verona, blood-red and sharp as steel, gutting anyone in his way. He reaches the dance floor and spies Tybalt behind a column.

Though his Capulet is dressed for a masquerade, Mercutio would know those lips anywhere. He takes to staring at them whenever he encounters the hot headed boy, memorizing their shape and how they move, wondering how they would feel. Are they rough or soft? Alas! Perhaps he will find out tonight, perhaps he may never know.

The Capulet is whispering into the ear of some girl, most likely one of his cousins. Mercutio has never heard of Tybalt taking a lover (all more reason to rejoice!) and—he twists his head around—Romeo is gazing dreamily at Tybalt's companion. That must be Rosaline.

Mercutio dances across the floor, keeping one eye on his prize at all times, making polite chatter with his partners, twirling away to the two people tucked into a corner.

“Excuse me, madam,” he begins, bowing to Rosaline, pitching his voice so Tybalt will not recognize him, “But yonder gentleman has invited you for a dance, if I may steer you toward him?”

The woman—girl, he thinks; she is barely a teenager, and the thought makes him soften and sadden, thinking of all the young children he's seen and felt die—giggles and adjusts her mask and takes his hand. He points her toward Romeo and pushes her in his friend's direction gently before turning his attention back to the Capulet he is really after.

“And you are?” Tybalt's voice is less biting than usual, and Mercutio can see something darker than wine in the glass he's holding. He plucks the drink out of the Capulet's hand and brings it to his lips, tasting brandy and frowning. It's not to his taste, much too unpleasant and strong.

He flicks his eyes up to meet Tybalt's as he lowers the glass, his mouth curling around his answer.

“I am yours.” Tybalt lets out a short bark of laughter at that, leaning back against the wall and throwing his head back for one beautiful second of exposed flesh in Mercutio's view, making him swallow and lick his lips, and then the Capulet snaps his head back down and his voice gains some of its normal growl back.

“Why are you here, Montague?” Now it's Mercutio's turn to laugh, and he moves closer to Tybalt, leaning one hand on the wall next to the Capulet's head.

“I doubt that you'd believe me if I told you, my dear Tybalt.” He tilts his chin, challenging, estimating possible reactions. Tybalt narrows his eyes and scrutinizes the Montague before him.

“Speak plainly, or I'll gut you right here.”

“I doubt your uncle would appreciate you murdering me in the middle of his party in his house. I think your father would—”

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing of,” Tybalt hisses, fisting his hands in Mercutio's collar. The City smiles sweetly and acquiesces.

“Your wish is my command, dear, lovely Tybalt,” he murmurs, his glass-laden hand moving to rest its knuckles on the Capulet's chest.

“Why are you here?” The question’s resurface catches Mercutio off guard, for he thought he had successfully diverted Tybalt from his lack of an answer.

“I came to help Romeo win the favor of a lady—”

“You forget: I can see through your truth-wrapped falsehoods,” Tybalt says, tightening his grip on the Montague's collar. Mercutio weighs his chances and ducks his head to whisper in the Capulet's ear.

“Dear Tybalt, I think it would be best if I told you in the privacy of another room; what will be said after my truth may not be appropriate for a party.” The Capulet eyes him suspiciously, sliding his hands from Mercutio's clothes.

“Perhaps your chambers would be better?” Mercutio suggests, just barely joking, striving to keep the purr out of his voice at the thought. Tybalt rolls his eyes and motions Mercutio to follow him, his cloak billowing around his ankles as he leads Mercutio to an empty hall that seems to be miles from the party, the sounds from the gathering just a quiet background murmur from where they are standing.

Mercutio wants Tybalt to lean against the wall again, wants to push the shorter man back, wants to run his teeth over the Capulet's neck, wants to do any number of things, but he doesn't. Tybalt stares expectantly, waiting for Mercutio to speak.

The City finds suddenly that his mouth is dry, he doesn't know what to say, so he wets his lips, trying to think, trying to laugh.

“Cat got your tongue, Montague?” Mercutio sees dark eyes simmer with mirth behind the mask they wear, and he grins in response, suddenly unsure of himself, suddenly nervous. Perhaps this is not a good idea after all.

“I did not know that Capulets were capable of jesting,” he says, remembering when he once was the Capulets' ally, how they shook with mirth every night and how their parties were thronged by happy guests and happy hosts. He misses those days, before the feud started, when the Capulets did not teach their sons to kill from the time they could walk.

But perhaps hate has not completely eaten away Tybalt's heart. He hopes that it is only lodged there, that he could wedge it out with enough force, but that is still far enough away, and may never be reached.

Tybalt purses his lips in impatience, nearly twisting them into a scowl.

“Just answer my question, Montague.”

Mercutio debates lying, telling Tybalt that he came to antagonize and tease, but he does not wish to fight, not tonight. He leans forward again and Tybalt stands his ground in the hall, his visible features hard and immovable.

“I came to see you, dear Prince of mine.” There is a flash of—perhaps uncertainty, perhaps anger, perhaps disappointment? no, that can't be right—something indescribable in the Capulet's eyes.

“You are lying,” he says, but his voice sounds deflated rather than accusatory. He lacks his usual bite and Mercutio finds the sudden absence of fire between them to be worrying.

Cities should be afraid of fire, but Mercutio is a moth to Tybalt's flame. He gambles, as Cities are wont to, and puts one hand on the Capulet's chest, fingers seeking out the heartbeat that thrums through the human, allowing himself to fall into its rhythm.

He leans forward again, pressing Tybalt back, forcing him to step and lean against the wall, his other hand cradling the back of Tybalt's head, tangling in the dark curls there.

Mercutio—and this is Mercutio, Verona has no place here, has no business falling in love with a human, has no idea what Mercutio is getting himself into—presses his body into Tybalt's smaller frame, placing his lips close to Tybalt's ear, not seeing how the Capulet glances up the hall, wary of wanderers who may discover them.

The party is nothing but a far off whisper as Mercutio tells Tybalt:

“I flew here on Venus's wings, mine feet barely kissed the ground in search of thee, I have not slept for thought of thee, I am burdened with feelings for thee and I pray thee, tell me the same, let me hear the sweet words fall from your mouth, please dear Tybalt, sweet, fiery Capulet, tell me thou feel'st the same.”

Tybalt can scarcely breathe, so instead he turns his head to press his lips to the side of Mercutio's jaw, bringing his hands up to cup Mercutio’s face and pull him where he wants, pressing his forehead to his adversary's.

Tybalt’s eyes are closed, but Mercutio watches the slight twitch of Tybalt eyelashes as the distance between them closes. The first touch is barely a brush, their masks hit with a soft noise and Mercutio pushes closer, pressing his lips more fully against Tybalt’s, frustrated by the barrier the masks make.

He pulls back and tugs his mask off, letting it fall out of his hand and reaches for the ties of Tybalt’s to have his hand batted away. The Capulet unties his own visor and removes it from his face, watching Mercutio’s reactions with those dark eyes, observing, gauging.

Mercutio rushes in for another kiss, cupping Tybalt’s face in both hands, moving against him forcefully, trying to take and give at the same time. Their breath comes in pants before long, Tybalt grasping Mercutio’s hair and kissing him open-mouthed, asking for more in the silent language only lovers know.

Tybalt kisses like a storm, a whirlwind tugging at Mercutio's hair and clothes, his lips rough and chapped like thunder, each slide of his tongue lightning, setting forest fires and destroying anything in its way.

A door closes somewhere nearby and Tybalt breaks away to look around as Mercutio dips his head to mouth at the Capulet's now exposed neck. The hall is still empty save for them, so Tybalt tips his head back against the wall and lets his eyes slide closed as small noises of pleasure escape his throat.

His breath catches at each bite and he lets out a quiet moan when Mercutio works a thigh in between his.

Mercutio could say this is heaven, but something so sinful is surely a gift from hell. Tybalt's skin tastes like nothing he's ever experienced, so human and delicious.

He laves his tongue over Tybalt's collar bones, careful to leave bites high on his neck where everyone will see.

He presses his body more firmly against Tybalt's in combination with a hard bite, and treasures the responding moan he hears. His hands move to unbutton Tybalt's cloak but the Capulet curls his hands around the City's wrists.

Mercutio breaks away to look at Tybalt; the Capulet's pupils are blown wide and he's panting, his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed with emotion. He looks absolutely ravishing and Mercutio wants to devour him whole.

Tybalt pushes his hands off his chest and holds them a few inches away.

“Not here,” he says, but it's painfully clear how much he wants Mercutio. It's delightful to see an expression other than hate on Tybalt's face. Mercutio can't recall any other time where there hasn't been a frown curling the Capulet's mouth.

“Where to then?” he asks, tracing circles on Tybalt's chest with the tip of one finger.

Tybalt jerks his head toward one end of the hall and starts walking, Mercutio eager to follow, sparing one glance back to check that the hall is still empty, save for their two masks lying on the ground.

Tybalt leads Mercutio through halls, rooms, up two flights of stairs and into a bedroom with a four poster bed and simple furnishings. The balcony is the best part of it. Mercutio walks out to stare at the stars, aware of Tybalt behind him.

The Capulet slides his arms around Mercutio's torso, kissing the back of his neck. It's an invitation, and Mercutio basks in the attention for a moment before turning around. He runs his hands across Tybalt's shoulders and down his arms to grip his wrists and pushes the Capulet back until he hits the outer wall of the mansion.

Mercutio drags Tybalt's arms up above his head and crosses his wrists, holding them there against the wall. Tybalt's eyes are dark, nearly unreadable, but he closes them and leans his head back slightly, showing obedience Mercutio never thought possible.

He takes one hand away, then the other so he can unbutton the heavy cloak Tybalt wears, and Tybalt keeps his hands where they are, as if still pinned. Mercutio leans forward to nip at the Capulet's ear and purrs, “Good boy.”

He can hear Tybalt huff a laugh at that and Tybalt's head turns toward his.

“Just hurry up, Montague.” Mercutio laughs at that, unlacing the Capulet's shirt and sliding his hands underneath it, enjoyed the warm flesh he finds. He takes his time, smoothing his hands over each plane of Tybalt's chest, enticingly slowly.

Tybalt shifts beneath him, trying to get Mercutio to move faster. He's never liked or enjoyed intimacy. He always finds it uncomfortable.

He presses his mouth wherever he can to Mercutio, mouthing at his jaw, moving his body in little circles and rolls to tell him to speed up. He starts letting out little mewls at each touch, hoping to spur on the fast, hard kissing from the hallway, but it never comes.

Mercutio wants to take his time, they have the entire night and plenty of privacy, so he decided to take everything slow.

Tybalt is practically squirming beneath him, and Mercutio tightens his hands on the Capulet's abdomen and whispers:

“Quiet yourself, good Capulet, sweet, lovely Tybalt. All is well. I only wish to take my time.” Tybalt's response is very close to being a sob, but he chokes it off halfway.

Mercutio confirmed his fear; he isn't going to speed up. The night is quickly going downhill; even though Mercutio is enjoying himself, Tybalt is steadily getting more and more distressed.

All of Mercutio's soft touches and tender kisses are confusing him. He doesn't like this strange, gentle assault. He liked when everything was a blur of fast and rough, when anger and tension was spurring them on.

He doesn't want to confuse this for love. He has barely any experience with this, and even less with love.

He comes back to himself, out of his thoughts, to find Mercutio standing in front of him, holding his face and saying something he can't make out over the blood rushing through his ears. He struggles to take in a breath, and can finally hear what Mercutio's saying.

“Tybalt. Dear Tybalt, you are shaking. Pray tell me what's wrong. Tybalt, please.” He sounds like he's begging.

Tybalt opens his mouth and nothing comes out, so he just snaps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw.

Mercutio pulls his hands down from the wall and holds them in his own, watching Tybalt struggle with himself. He doesn't know what went wrong. When Tybalt finally speaks, what he says startles Mercutio.

“I think it is best... if you go.”

“Dear Prince, why? Did I hurt thee?”

Tybalt clenches his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Get out.”

“Tybalt, no. I will not leave thee. Tell me what happened. What did I do?”

Mercutio sounds worried but Tybalt knows people only ask questions when they want something from you.

He makes one last effort.

“Leave, Monague.”

“And I tell thee again, I will not! Tell me how I have injured thee so I may clean thine wounds and beg for forgiveness.”

Tybalt shakes his head, lips pressed together and tries to tug his hands from Mercutio's. The City kneels in front of the smaller man like a sinner begging for absolution, kissing the hands he holds and murmuring against them,

“Please, dear Capulet, tell me what I did to distress you so I may fix my mistake.”

Tybalt pulls his hands away and walks off the balcony into his room, Mercutio getting to his feet and following.

The Capulet lets his cloak slide off his shoulders and fall to the ground, then pulls his loosened shirt over his head and lets it flutter to the ground.

Mercutio opens his mouth to speak and is cut off before he can start.

“Don't speak. If you speak I will force you to leave.” Tybalt's voice is quiet and flat as he takes off his boots. He climbs into the bed and motions Mercutio over.

The City pulls off his own boots and cloak, discarding his shirt as well in the summer heat and climbs onto the bed, next to Tybalt.

Tybalt pushes the blankets back to lie down and Mercutio follows, molding himself behind the Capulet and wrapping an arm around him from behind. Tybalt shifts around to face him, eyes steady, a contrast to how his gaze usually flickers all around.

He lets out a soft sigh and lets his fingers trace imaginary tracks across Mercutio's bare skin, touching the scar on his chest, unable to see it in the lack of light. Mercutio takes Tybalt's hand in his, stopping its meander, substituting it with a kiss, trying to stay slow but Tybalt kisses back hard, like he's got something to prove.

Mercutio cards a hand through Tybalt's hair, twisting his fingers into the dark curls there, pressing their bare chests together, feeling small scars on the Capulet he dares to trace with his free hand, unable to see them in the lack of light. Tybalt deterrs his exploration of skin by tugging at his shoulders until he rolls on top of the smaller man, Tybalt kissing and nipping at his jaw and smoothing his hands over Mercutio's back.

The City kisses Tybalt again, tasting sparks and feeling the human's fire lick his bones. He rolls his hips into the Capulet's, feeling how much Tybalt wants this, wants him. His hands fumble with the fastenings of Tybalt's pants as he presses more kisses to Tybalt's mouth, and his prince moans in response, wanting, submitting.

They fuck fast the first time, desperate, panting and gasping their way through it, Mercutio’s hands all over Tybalt, gripping and bruising any place he can reach.

The second time, they are a bit slower. Mercutio takes his time teasing Tybalt, laving his tongue over each part of his lover's chest and sucking every part of his neck, basking in how obviously gratified Tybalt looks under all the attention.

His mouth is slack from panting, eyes blown wide, high cheekbones flushed, his hair and chest glistening with sweat in what faint starlight made it into the room.

Tybalt wakes up to light streaming in through the windows, his body achingly sore. He turns his head to gaze at Mercutio, finding the Montague’s back to him.

There is a strange line snaking across his shoulder blades that looks like a scar, but is so clean and has strange parts of it cutting upwards rectangles that it must be a design.

Freckles dapple Mercutio’s shoulders, and Tybalt presses his hands to Mercutio’s back and begins to kiss each one. The Montague groans and rolls over to face Tybalt, a smile tugging at the sides of his mouth.

Tybalt looks wrecked. There’s wine colored bruises in the shape of a hand decorating his throat from when he begged Mercutio to choke him until he couldn’t breathe and several bite marks layered above them.

The sides of the Capulet’s waist also sport wine colored hand prints from when Mercutio fucked him so hard he screamed into the City’s neck. Mercutio touches his own neck, feeling messy lovebites strewn across his skin. They’re wearing matching grins of contentment and Mercutio pulls Tybalt into his chest more fully.

“Did you sleep well, Prince of Cats?” He purrs, skidding a hand down Tybalt’s back.

“Better than you’d think, what with a Montague in my bed,” Tybalt says.

Footfalls are heard far away, but they seem to approach Tybalt’s room. The Capulet is up like a bolt of lightning, immediately pushing at Mercutio’s shoulder.

“You have to go, you have to get out, if anyone would find you here”---The footsteps are getting louder---“We would both be skinned,” he hisses, rolling out of bed to tug his clothes on.

“You might want to cover your neck,” Mercutio suggests as he pulls of his shirt, barely able to keep the laughter out of his voice. Tybalt looks at him, confused, then in the mirror and Mercutio sees his eyes widen as he digs through the bureau to find a shirt with a high collar.

Mercutio has a good view of Tybalt’s back as he switches shirts, and he frowns at what he sees. Long, intertwining scars mar the otherwise perfect skin there. They look to be lash marks.

Tybalt turns and sees Mercutio standing still, and waves a hand at him.

“Go out to the balcony, the southernmost side has thick vines that you can climb down which will put you on top of the garden wall which you can get to trees from and easily back into the streets. What are you still standing there for? Go, you fool!” Mercutio wrenches the balcony doors open and starts climbing down when he hears Lord Capulet’s booming voice from inside.

“Where did you disappear to, nephew? You were supposed to be there; it was a family gathering. Rosaline and Juliet spent the night thinking you abandoned them.”

He doesn’t hear what Tybalt responds, the wind carries the rest of the words away as he climbs down, down, down.

He spots Romeo climbing out a window of the mansion as well, and treasures the sight, knowing just what to say to tease him later.

 

Mercutio finds Benvolio first, sharing tales of last night (though Mercutio’s are all falsified) and Romeo comes along, in some sort of love-struck stupor.

“Where has Romeo been all night?” Mercutio crows as the Montague walks toward them.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. I met an angel last night, an angel named Juliet. She and I are to married tomorrow,” his voice sounds far off and dreamy. Mercutio laughs, knowing that this union will never work.

He does not think of his and Tybalt’s new relationship.

“Romeo, Tybalt will duel and kill you for touching his cousin,” Benvolio warns, a nervous look already on his face. Romeo waves his hand flippantly.

“I will not duel him, for we will be cousins on the morrow.” Mercutio laughs again.

“But he will duel you. He will force your hand, just so he can fight. The Prince of Cats has no boundaries.” It’s half a jest and half a warning.

Mercutio knows that Tybalt will goad Romeo into a fight once he hears of the engagement. Rosaline and Juliet are Tybalt’s most treasured cousins; he would not let one of them marry a Montague.

 

Mercutio meets Tybalt in town and pulls his aside to whisper into the Capulet’s ear, out of sight in the nearly empty street.

He starts off seductive, telling Tybalt what he plans for tonight but the Capulet pushes his away from his ear and kisses him instead, telling him to come to his balcony once he’s done wreaking havoc in the city with his Montagues.

 

When Mercutio pulls himself onto the stone balcony, Tybalt attacks him with kisses, pulling him close by his shirt. They mold together perfectly, Tybalt is all hard angles and Mercutio is all soft lines, they push and pull each other, perfect opposites in blessed harmony.

Mercutio decides not to tell Tybalt about Romeo and Juliet.

Tybalt finds out anyway.

 

The day is hot when Tybalt comes striding towards he and Benvolio, enraged. His hands are practically shaking when he demands where Romeo is.

“Dear Capulet, why do you seek a Montague?” Mercutio asks, but he already knows the answer.

“I think you already know, Montague,” Tybalt snaps, “As Romeo cannot keep his god forsaken mouth shut.”

Mercutio nods in agreement, “Very true, very true. But what did he do?”

“He has plans to marry Juliet. He has somehow fooled into believing she loves him,” Tybalt spits each word as it it were poison. “I seek to duel him.”

“Romeo would not duel you, Tybalt. You are the best sword-handler in Verona.” Mercutio winks at Tybalt, smiling at his own joke, and Tybalt flushes slightly.

“Peace be with you, Montague. Here comes my servant.” He fires back, irked by Mercutio's jests.

Mercutio whips his head around to see Romeo approaching and turns back to Tybalt, ready to let sparks fly of his tongue, but Romeo stops him.

“Good Mercutio, what is going on here?” Romeo sounds more like his usual self, the City notes. Tybalt beats him to speaking.

“Romeo, thou art a villain!” He accuses, advancing on the Monague.

“Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none; therefore farewell, I see thou knowest me not.” Romeo says, bewildered by the sudden onslaught of outrage that is the Capulet.

Tybalt grinds his teeth in fury, his words next sharp.

“Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw!” He commands, shoving Romeo so he stumbles and Benvolio restrains Mercutio with one arm.

“I do protest I never injured thee, but love thee better than thou canst devise, till thou shalt know the reason of my love, and so, good Capulet—which name I tender as dearly as mine own—be satisfied,” Romeo begs, kissing Tybalt's hand. Tybalt wrenches his arm away as if burned and draws his sword.

“O dishonorable, vile submission!” Mercutio cries, drawing his sword as well. “Tybalt, you filthy cat, come here!”

“What wouldst thou have with me?” Tybalt challenges, taunting, his eyes glinting in the sun.

“Good Prince of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives!” Mercutio declares, ready to begin fencing at any moment.

“Mercutio, hold!” Romeo cries, but it is too late. Tybalt and Mercutio cross blades again and again, easily parrying and sharing secret lovers' glances.

Tybalt goes for an easy blocked lunge but Romeo jumps between them. Tybalt can only watch in horror as the tip of his blade sinks into the very left side of Mercutio's chest. He can only pray that he missed Mercutio's heart as he reels back and runs, not able to hear of the blood pounding through his ears.

He killed Mercutio.

 

Neither Benvolio nor Romeo saw him wounded, and he thanks God for it. The stab wound knits itself together instantly, but the blood staining his clothes stays.

“I am not hurt badly, dear Romeo,” he says. “But do help me to a public house for I fear I may faint.” Benvolio helps him walk to a tavern and orders something to eat.

Neither of them notice that Romeo is gone until it is too late.

 

Tybalt is a few streets away, leaning against a brick wall, dry heaving. Killing always shakes him.

And now he's killed the one person to love him. He shudders, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to straighten up.

He turns at the sound of footsteps and see terrible Romeo with a scowl twisting his face standing behind him.

“Tybalt, take that insult back again, for Mercutio's sake,” he intones, and lunges.

Tybalt parries, barely attacking, fighting like a man who knows he's already dead even before the blade pierces his stomach.

He chokes, and Romeo pulls the sword out and cries, “Dear God, no!” in unison with another voice.

Mercutio and Benvolio saw the fight just as it ended. Tybalt falls to the ground and covers the wound as if he could plug it but blood continually seeps from his fingers, staining everything nearby red.

Mercutio kneels next to him, clutching at his shoulders and trying not to cry. Tybalt mouths something, trying to speak. Mercutio leans down and catches, “Get me... out of the street. Please, Mercutio.”

Mercutio hefts Tybalt up to his feet and half carries him away, Benvolio and Romeo have long since fled the scene for fear of retribution.

Mercutio brings Tybalt to the sycamore grove, not noticing that Tybalt walks more easily as they get farther from town. No more blood has come to the surface either.

Mercutio lies Tybalt down and sits, next to him. The Capulet is utterly still.

“Tybalt!” Mercutio shouts at him, shaking his shoulders. By all accounts, the Capulet is dead.

 

Long ago in Sicily, there was a city named Entella. No one really knows how the City was born.

Some say he emerged where the two seas met, others say he sprung from the river Hypsas, and few whisper that he fell from the sky, blazing like a second sun.

Entella became prosperous due to it's ability to make wine and farm corn, and allied itself with Carthage, laughing with him.

All friendships were severed as Entella donned armor and fought with its former friend under the rule of Dionysius I.

Some parts of Entella remained loyal to Carthage even under Dionysius's rule.

In 343 BCE, Carthage ravaged the city, gutting its former friend.

Entella was later restored to independence and lived quietly on its own.

Peace was in place for many centuries until Frederik II destroyed and killed many of its inhabitants.

Entella, the City, proud, fierce Entella, disappeared.

No one saw him die, or heard of where he went.

Entella became a lost city. Many believe he still wanders the ruins of his home, living like a ghost. other say he lives in Rome, or travels throughout Italy.

But the last whisper that anyone ever heard of Entella was that he went to the river the night his city was nearly destroyed.

 

Tybalt's eyes open and he gasps in a huge amount of air, sitting up and nearly dry heaving again. The flashbacks always happen whenever he nearly dies.

He remembers his buildings crumbling, his people fleeing, feeling more and more empty as he was abandoned. He hears muffled noise and turns his head to see Mercutio saying something he can't make out.

He looks worried to death.

“O fuck,” Tybalt whispers, realizing he should be dead if he were a human. Now Mercutio will think he's Verona, another City who's been missing for centuries.

He closes his eyes and lets Mercutio pull him into a shaky embrace, mentally preparing for the worst. What he gets, isn't all that bad.

“Tybalt, dear sweet Tybalt, you should be dead. Why...? Why didn't you tell me you were a City? I would've told you about myself if you had.” Mercutio is murmuring this, and Tybalt is not quite sure he's supposed to hear it. He pushes away slightly to meet Mercutio's eyes.

“You? A City? So that is why you are not dead either?” He asks, biting his tongue afterwards so he does not ask which City Mercutio is. Perhaps he's another Lost City, like the rumors he hears that Luni is still alive, or that Sybaris escaped the Crotonian attacks. His brow furrows.

“What City are you?” he asks softly, one hand coming up to caress his jaw. Mercutio smiles.

“My dear Tybalt, I am Verona. I feel every inhabitants heart beat but the one I treasure the most is right before my eyes.”

Tybalt takes that in, and leans forward to kiss Mercutio. As he pulls away, he says:

“My City's name was Entella,” he says. “My buildings still stand, but all of my citizens are long since gone. Your secret will stay with me, if mine stays with you.” Mercutio nods, pulling Tybalt forward for another kiss.

Tybalt tries to speak as the same time.

“We have to tell our families”--Mercutio will not let him pull away so soon--“that we live”--Mercutio should not feel as greedy as he does, it makes him feel heady and light in this forest, kissing his City--“and we are unharmed.”

Mercutio lets Tybalt go, and assents.

“I suppose we should come up with a cunning lie about why a Montague dragged you die in the sycamore grove.” Tybalt laughs at that, really laughs, and Mercutio falls even further for him.

Tybalt looked so carefree in that one moment, tossing his head back and laughing, that Mercutio wants to kiss him again, ravage him and claim him and show the whole world that Tybalt is his and that he brings him joy and love. Instead, when they stand Mercutio just says:

“Tonight?”

To which the Capulet replies:

“Of course.”

They go their separate ways out of the forest, Tybalt walking into the Capulet mansion to be bombarded with questions about why he was dueling, how he escaped death, where he was.

He accepts an embrace from Juliet, who looks like she's been crying. He assures them that all is well, and the questions are dropped.

Mercutio finds Benvolio and Romeo in the Montague house and they ask no questions, assuming Mercutio has already licked his own wounds and they fall back into their usual jesting rhythm.

 

Tybalt receives him with a tender openness Mercutio never thought possible.

All of Tybalt's edges are so rough and sharp that gentleness seemed long gone from him.

Tybalt pulls Mercutio into his room, unlacing the City's shirt while they kiss, pulling it off to trace the large scar twisting across Mercutio's chest.

“The Paduans,” he says, and Tybalt nods. The legendary slaughter left a deep groove in Mercutio's skin. Tybalt's hands drift over the freckles on his shoulders, and Mercutio smiles.

“Some of Rome's handiwork. She helped beautify me.” Tybalt shakes his head.

“You were beautiful from the beginning.” Mercutio has no response for that, choosing instead to tug Tybalt out of his own shirt. He grasps one shoulder to turn Tybalt and the Capulet says:

“Perhaps the bed would be better.” He sounds unsure, unsteady. Mercutio suspects no one has found out that Tybalt is a City for many centuries.

They climb onto the bed and Mercutio sits behind Tybalt, smoothing his hands over the deep welts on his back, waiting for Tybalt to speak.

“We were friends with the Carthaginians. Dionysius made sure my people weren't any more. Everyone had to flee. I am only alive because my buildings have not yet drowned in flame.” His voice sounds tight, nearly choked.

Mercutio nods, his fingers just barely touching the scars. A thought strikes him and wanders it’s way to the surface of his mind.

“How did you come to join the Capulets?” He asks. “They believe you to be one of their own.”

Tybalt tenses beneath him, and Mercutio senses that this is something Tybalt may have never thought about much or had to explain. The City stays facing away from him and breathes in deeply.

“When I was first abandoned, I stayed in the ruins for centuries, hoping my citizens would return. Then I moved about before I found Verona. I liked Verona, so I stayed. I was alone for a very long time, then I met the Capulets. I drifted in and out of the Capulet’s favor for generations, staying more on the sidelines so no one would notice that I did not die.” Mercutio nods, he did the same thing himself for many years.

“Then Vittorio died. There were rumors that his son and wife had fallen sick, and so I went to Mantua, and they were dead and buried.

“I stopped the letters before they reached Verona and showed up in Tybalt Capulet’s clothes. I took his name and his identity.

“I had a family again. Back in Entella, in my city, I was family to all. There were not a lot of us, but I knew every citizen and they knew me. I wanted that.

“But the Capulets are poison. They teach their sons to kill from the first time they draw breath. I will never rid myself of the hate I acquired stepping into this family.

“Even now, it stirs my blood. I am angry that my cousin--my false cousin--will be married to a Montague. I hate that Romeo and his companion Benvolio. But I do not hate you.” Tybalt turns, sitting up and cupping Mercutio’s face in his hands.

“You out-worded me and fought me fairly, equally. You and I…We are Cities. We are not humans, yet we are so like the ones in this town. I regret losing myself in this feud, but I do not regret joining the Capulets.” He moves forward to kiss Mercutio and the Montague tugs Tybalt down and they lie together, reveling in the quiet sound of each other’s breathing.

Mercutio presses his face into Tybalt’s curls and the City threads their fingers together in response. All is quiet in the Capulet house.

The Cities are at peace.


End file.
